


First day.

by notmyrevolution



Series: upstairs/downstairs [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmyrevolution/pseuds/notmyrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire hates suits.</p><p>Which is funny, really, since he’s walking downstairs to start his first day in the suit department of Musain’s, but that’s not the point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First day.

**Author's Note:**

> This occurs, chronologically, before the first two parts.

Grantaire hates suits.

Which is funny, really, since he’s walking downstairs to start his first day in the suit department of Musain’s, but that’s not the point. He hates _wearing_ suits. He can’t move his arms because shoulder pads are apparently a thing, and he feels strangled in a tie and because, _horror of horrors_ , he has tattoos on his forearms, he has to have his sleeves rolled down and buttoned up.

He hates it.

But downstairs sells suits and now he works downstairs, so he doesn’t have a choice, really.

His suit is conservative, so is his tie, so are his goddamn _cufflink s_ and downstairs is a conservative world.

It’s all black suits and white shirts and grey ties, and Grantaire thinks it’s the most boring merchandising he’s ever seen. So it surprises him to see the guy behind the counter wearing a plaid jacket and a pink shirt. He looks like flowers in spring, like lavender lemonade, like poems and music. Grantaire thinks he might be in love. He’s not alone, making amused yet exasperated faces at another guy, who’s propped himself against the counter like he belongs there.

“Courfeyrac, I don’t have the time to play mediator right now,” Pink and plaid says, and Grantaire falters, curious.

“You’re a traitor to the cause, Jehan,” The other, Courfeyrac, responds.

“I work downstairs now. I wasn’t going to say no to a promotion,” Jehan points out, fierce, and yeah, Grantaire already likes him.

“But mother and father are fighting,” Courfeyrac says, leaning against the counter in melodramatic despair. He looks as if he’s about to start wailing. Jehan, amused, raises an eyebrow.

“Are they? Why this time?” He asks, and Grantaire, at this point, swears he’s just _humouring_ Courfeyrac’s dramatics.

“Enjolras yelled at a designer. Again. Something about slave labour? And capitalism, I think. ‘Ferre is kind of over it,” Courfeyrac explains. Grantaire tries not to laugh, because _fucking bridal, man._

“They’re not going to fire Enjolras, though, so why are you worried?” Jehan asks, as if this is obvious. Grantaire supposes it is.

“Of course not, but you know these two. They’re an old, married couple. If you ask me, what Enjolras _really_ needs is a good f--”

“Courf,” Jehan cuts him off, spotting Grantaire. Courfeyrac turns, and Grantaire waves, awkwardly.

“Uh, hi,” He says, glancing between them.

“Good morning, sir!” Jehan chimes, moving out from behind the counter, his measuring tape held ready.

“Jean Prouvaire, right?” Grantaire asks, assuming. “I’m R-- I’m Grantaire.”

The change on Jehan’s face is instantaneous. He goes from a tired, forced smile, to bright and open and everything beautiful. Christ, even Grantaire can’t help but smile back at him, with how happy and relieved he looks.

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” Jehan says, handing Grantaire the measuring tape, so he can wave his hands about emphatically. “I’ve had no one since Mabeuf retired, and we were understaffed before that, so I’m very glad they hired you. I hope you’ll fit.”

Grantaire feels like he should thank him for the vote of confidence, but then Courfeyrac is stepping close to him, looking him over and Grantaire _knows_ that sort of look, because he uses it all the time when he spots something he wants (though _his_ looks are usually directed to a cigarette and a cup of coffee).

“Are you sure you want to work down here?” Courfeyrac asks with a sly grin, “Because there’s plenty of room in bridal for you?”

“You mean, upstairs? Where apparently your sales staff yell at the _designers_?” Grantaire asks, with a laugh, and shakes his head. “No, thanks.”

“Oh, that’s just Enjolras,” Jehan explains, looking like he’s worried Grantaire will disappear.

“Just Enjolras?” Grantaire asks again, looking between the two. Obviously this is in an ongoing thing, because they both seem to know what’s going on.

“Don’t worry about him,” Courfeyrac explains, patting Grantaire on the shoulder. “You’ll meet him soon enough, and then you’ll probably wish you hadn’t.”

Grantaire wonders if his first day is going to get more or less interesting than this. His last store was smaller, and apparently a lot less like a theatre show. He’s not entirely convinced he’s going to last here, but Grantaire also knows a job is a job, and at least he doesn’t have to pretend like he cares how brides feel about the difference between ivory, silver, champagne and white. He’ll continue showing up, each day, until they realise he’s not going to work and politely fire him.

“Anyway, good luck,” Courfeyrac says, before turning to Jehan and pointing his finger upwards. “I’m heading back upstairs--”

“Where you belong,” Jehan interrupts, playfully.

“Yes, okay, but I’m going to attempt to stop Enjolras murdering designers and Combeferre murdering Enjolras, so if you never hear from me again, know I died a hero,” Courfeyrac continues, pressing a hand to his chest in an attempt to look valiant. Jehan waves him off, laughing, and Courfeyrac bounds back upstairs, taking them two at a time.

“You get used to him,” Jehan explains, but Grantaire just laughs and shakes his head. People like Courfeyrac are people Grantaire has as friends. He’s hopeful.

Jehan is turning to him, then, looking hopeful. "They told me you're good at visual merchandising?" 

It's a question, but Grantaire groans in response, because yeah that's _not what he had meant_ , that's not what he told them at all. 

"No," he says, and Jehan's face twists into a disappointed frown, but Grantaire continues. "No, what I told them was I have an arts degree and that gives me an eye for colours. Obviously they took 'good at VM' from that." 

Jehan looks curious now, though, and he looks around the store, before gesturing wide, "What would you change?"

And Jesus, Grantaire thinks, he hasn't even been shown where the stockroom is or how to use the computer system, but Jehan's asking him what _he_ would change about the store. He looks around, taking in the blacks and greys and fucking _ivory_.

"It's way too conservative down here. This is a bridal store, we're giving people a suit for their wedding, not their funeral," Grantaire says, pointing at a rack near the stairs. "They know we have ivory, it's a _bridal store_ , why not put some colour there? Some red, or purple. I mean, hell, it's fucking spring, put some _florals_ out."

Jehan is looking at him, and Grantaire can’t decipher the expression. Jesus, he hopes he hasn't just insulted Jehan's merchandising and lost his job on the first day. Usually it takes a little longer than that.

"Can I keep you?" Jehan says, grinning wide, and _what._

"What?"

It's only belatedly that Grantaire realises Jehan's wearing pink and plaid, of course he's going to want something _not_ ivory.

"You don't have to wear a suit, you know," Jehan remarks absently, and Grantaire is definitely, _definitely_ in love with him.

He tosses his tie away that night, and pulls a waistcoat from the wardrobe instead.

 

( _Grantaire does meet Enjolras, four months later. He thinks that if Jehan were flowers in spring, then Enjolras is the sun, and Grantaire is completely and utterly fucked.)_

 

**Author's Note:**

> You're welcome to come find me on tumblr, notmyrevolution.tumblr.com. Befriend me and witness me posting the same emoji over and over.


End file.
